


Kiss me (as if it were the first time)

by Zabbers



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zabbers/pseuds/Zabbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their bodies are new but still know each other best of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss me (as if it were the first time)

There’s a first time for everything. And if you are a Time Lord, there are often multiple first times for everything, one for every regeneration.

This one has just been kissed.

This is not entirely true. She’s kissed him once before, but at the time he was trying to pretend it wasn’t happening, and she was pretending to be a robot.

And another time, he kissed her, but that doesn’t count either. Well, it _counts_ , but it doesn’t, and--

Anyway, she has just kissed him. He has just been kissed. And regardless of whether, technically, it was the first time, it is most certainly the first time with the hands everywhere and all the touching and both of them kissing each other at the same time.

He doesn’t hate it. Wasn’t sure, before they got started. He _should_ hate it, or at least feel bad about it, but he doesn’t.

No, that’s wrong, too. He does feel bad about it, very, very extremely guilty and not a bit confused, but guilt and bewilderment don’t really change the underlying reasons having Missy safe in his TARDIS (under his watch, in his arms) will always feel better to the Doctor than not.

Reason number one.

As much as they have diverged, as antithetical as their choices have made them, she is how he began, and he doesn’t have to tell her any fairy tales. He can’t lie about himself to the person most like him in the universe, can he? He sees himself reflected in her, distorted, yes, but what mirror doesn’t change the light, just a bit, before bouncing it back to the viewer?

He looks and looks into her (now very blue) eyes, and there’s nothing to hide, nothing he could. Nothing that means anything anyway. Nothing that matters.

She looks right back, never closing her eyes for an instant, and he thinks maybe she made these eyes just for gazing at him. They’re like download points, data conduits absorbing every detail, refusing to miss any of it any more.

When they kiss, it’s like he’s trying to focus through a tinted lens held too close, but he doesn’t care. These bodies have never learned the right way to be, and should is someone else’s word when they are teaching each other, writing the rules as they decide them.

Reason number two:

Even if they were not the same, she would be as familiar as breath--not just any breath, but that first lungful of air when you step out of an airlock into the atmosphere of home. Having her in his head and in his embrace is like opening the latch to his house and finding the door still remembers his handprint.

She’s long since draped her jacket carefully out of the way, the brooch and her collar tucked inside one of its pockets. When he has unfastened each of the four mother-of-pearl shirt buttons, he rests his hand on her sternum, just as he did before he knew who she was, just as he hasn’t stopped doing since. Her skin seems to respond to his touch, cool but warming quickly under his fingers; her chest rises and falls in sync with the uptempo beat of her hearts.

Reason three: He doesn’t have to worry about hurting her. 

Doesn’t have to worry about keeping her alive, about getting her home on time, and about the irreparable disruption of her life. She is wholly his, and entirely cognizant of just what that entails, and has long, long ago committed herself to possessing him just as thoroughly, with her remarkable mind and each and every body.

Missy allows him to rest there for less than a minute, luxuriating in her thought patterns, before she shoves his hand away, and he almost howls with disappointed rage at the severed contact before she grabs his temples and inserts herself fully and abruptly into his mind. He hears the echo of his own voice through her ears and realises that he did, in fact, protest aloud.

But his brain is ablaze now. Brand-new neurons that have never fired before suddenly release packets and packets of information, flooding his potentials.

To his embarrassment, the Doctor finds himself confessing into the link that this is his current body’s first erection.

She laughs at him and leans in to whisper her own secrets into his ear, and ends by biting him, hard enough to hurt but not sharp enough to make him flinch away. She tongues the fold behind his earlobe and follows along his jaw, licks back into his mouth so that she can release her hands to push his jacket out of the way.

He gets stuck in the sleeves and struggles gawkily before she makes him stop with--and this might be worse than anything she’s done to him before--a _tutting_ sound. (The mental impression of one, anyway, because her mouth is too busy with other things.)

He wants to keep her that way, so when he finally struggles out of the jacket, he lowers himself to the floor of the TARDIS, and, miraculously, she follows. She works at all his layers while he reaches up under her skirts and runs his hands over her legs, the material of her drawers as sybaritic as anything else the Master has worn against her skin.

In his head he feels the warmth of long fingers rubbing her thighs, squeezing her arse, digging thumbs into the hollows of her hip bones. Giving up on his waistcoat, Missy goes for his trousers instead. Her skin is softer than it has ever been before, but her fingers have always been this deft. She pulls him out, and the pleased predatory smirk is not only on her face but huge in their minds too.

She straddles him, rubs herself against him through the final layer of fabric in their way. She shares every new sensation, the complex dense ignition of nerves, the juxtaposition of silky and hard, what it feels like to be wet, which is novel to them both.

He sends back a gulped sense of urgency. He can admit it; he's not proud. There’s only so long he can last.

Even in the shared space of their minds, the Doctor has no awareness of how she removes her drawers, only knows when they are gone and he is pulling her onto him, and to his startlement there is a moment of hesitant uncertainty, maybe even uneasy discomfort, banished when she has him inside her. She rocks up and down experimentally, balancing with her hands on his shoulders. His own hands aren’t so much guides as stabilisers, and even that job is soon forgotten as she picks up the pace and he jerks his hips up at her, not entirely voluntarily. 

And this is the first time, this is completely brand new, but they’ve been doing this for a thousand years, and the Doctor knows what is expected of him. 

 _Mistress..._ he confesses into the mental link, where it means Mistress and Master and love and need and never letting go and never, ever giving up and two people coming together without having or being able to hold anything back, always, since the first time. Then they’re coming together, synchronised by their sharing, the positive feedback loop yielding one more surprise of her new body, because when he comes to his senses it is long minutes later, and every muscle feels like it has been contracting and relaxing the entire time and there is so much oxygen coursing through his system that he feels like he might ignite.

Her hands are in his, and it is the most familiar thing, like home, and in her eyes her pupils are dilated and her irises are so blue looking at him like she’ll never stop studying the boy in each new body, behind each new face.

Reason number four: He’s saved Gallifrey, but he’s still alone. Loved, but inevitably an exhibit on a pedestal. In a universe without the Master, he is an alien. Singular.

Missy is his equal, not just his own kind but even among them his equivalent, and that, much as he hates it, counts for something. She is as familiar as the groan of his old TARDIS, and the smell of the wind sweeping over dry red plains, and the temperature of his childhood bed warmed by his own body.

Like him, she’s outlived the days allotted her, become unmoored in a universe that was never big enough and always a little too big. They’re dreamers, chasing something they can’t catch. Leading each other and calling it learning. And look where that has brought them! The last of their kind, but also the first; accidentally overrunning their limits because they weren’t looking when they crossed the finish line.

They’re dodos. They’re curiosities.

But they're dodos together. And she sees every feather, every flaw and every face, and _knows_ him. There are no justifications to make, no need to explain to her the reflection she sees in her soul’s mirror. Paired.

He’s always shocked, but secretly, idiotically grateful, to find that she has survived, with him. And that she’s chosen to use that survival to come to him. 

The thought that she might ever resurrect herself and go conquering the universe without him is--stupidly--unbearable.


End file.
